You Do Know I'm Not a Doctor, Right?
by Weesta
Summary: Five times Clint sought out Bruce for medical attention and one time he didn't.
1. Concussion

It was a few months after the Battle of New York the first time Clint sought out Bruce for medical treatment. Aside from the few times they were in the field together, Bruce hadn't seen much of Clint. To be perfectly honest, Bruce hadn't seen much of anyone beside Tony, and that was only because Tony sought him out regularly to "science".

Although invitations had been extended to everyone who'd fought as an Avenger in New York, Bruce was the only one who'd taken up Tony's offer of residence in the Tower. The Tower had the dual appeal of being the "Candyland" Tony promised as well as being nearly impregnable to outside forces. Bruce still wasn't in the habit of sleeping well, but at least in the Tower he was sleeping more.

Bruce wasn't sure where Steve was located, but he was around enough that he had to be local - if not Manhattan, probably somewhere in Brooklyn, the home of his heart. Natasha and Clint were around much less unless there was an Avenger-level emergency; then they seemed to materialize, almost always arriving together. So it was a genuine surprise when Clint showed up, somewhat worse for wear, in Bruce's lab.

Clint leaned heavily on the door jam as he knocked to announce his presence. That seemed to be about all he could manage. He didn't even throw out a feeble "What's up doc?" which was his usual opening line.

Bruce rose from his desk, took off and folded his reading glasses and tucked them neatly in his pocket. "Hey, Clint." Bruce tipped his head and squinted as he got closer to the archer. Bruises were starting to rise to the surface on Clint's bare arms and he was bleeding in a number of places. "What are you doing here?"

Clint sighed heavily. All of the archer's normal jocularity and wit seemed to have abandoned him. "Can you clear me?"

Bruce did a double-take and smiled self-deprecatingly. "You know I'm not that kind of doctor, right?"

"I know...you've said…" Clint fretfully rubbed the crease between his brows as he worked to spit his words out. "I don't know how many more hours I can spend confined in SHIELD medical." Clint slumped even more heavily against the door, probably regretting that he'd been so forthright and already anticipating being sent away.

Bruce immediately empathized with Clint's situation. Although they hadn't directly discussed it, Bruce gleaned that Clint had been heavily monitored by SHIELD since he'd been compromised by Loki; to the point where the supervision was relentlessly claustrophobic. Bruce got the feeling that Clint felt like he deserved the extra scrutiny and the intense monitoring; as a way of making up for the damage he'd caused and reassurance for everyone that it wouldn't happen again. Bruce could relate to the pressure that put Clint under though the other man had been mostly accepting of it up to this point. But for whatever reason, Clint had had enough and he'd reached the end of his rope.

Sending Clint away was never a viable option in Bruce's mind. Bruce didn't give in to the temptation to stop and organize his work in progress; that would mean inviting Barton to sit down and chances were too high that if he sat, Bruce would be hard pressed to get him moving again. Instead, Bruce gestured to the hallway behind Clint as he walked toward the door. "Why don't we take this conversation to a medical suite instead of here in the lab, and we'll go from there."

Clint blinked and attempted to stand up straight. Relief and surprise were evident on his face; just one more indication of how exhausted he was.

Bruce sidled through the doorway, careful not to bump Clint, and then started walking toward the elevator. Clint fell into step behind him. Bruce kept trying to slow his pace to allow Clint to pull up and walk beside him, but when he slowed down, the archer slowed down too. Bruce finally worked out that Clint was putting most of his energy into watching Bruce's shoes so he knew where to go. Bruce tried not to let the anxiety of someone following him get the better of him, though he had to remind himself more than once that he was safe in the Tower and it was a teammate, not one of Ross' men, following close on his heels.

It was too awkward to try and have a conversation while Clint trailed behind him, so Bruce held off on the questions until they finally arrived in an excessively appointed medical suite. Tony, or maybe it was Pepper, had the suite done up in soothing, neutral tones. Though the equipment available would rival any state of the art emergency room, the room itself had more of a spa or salon feel.

Without being asked, Clint hoisted himself up on to the exam table. Then he let out a sigh and rubbed his forehead again.

"Headache?" Bruce asked as he rummaged through drawers and cabinets looking for the equipment he might need. Tony was generous but sometimes supplying _everything_ was too much of a good thing. All Bruce really needed was a stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff, both of which were eluding him in his search.

Clint's response was somewhere between a grunt and an "isn't that obvious" snort. The snort was a tactical mistake causing unwanted pressure in his head and the whole thing ended up in a low groan.

When Bruce finally gathered all of his tools, he returned his attention to Clint and approached slowly. He laid out the equipment on a tray the he rolled over with this foot, keeping everything very clearly in Clint's line of sight. "Can you tell me what happened?" Then he smirked as he beat Clint to the obvious punchline, "Or would you have to kill me?"

Clint responded with a genuine, if weary, smile. "You know how it goes, Doc." Clint waved his right hand around emphasising his words. "Go out on a mission...save the world...get kicked in the head. Same old, same old."

"Looks like a little more than getting kicked in the head, but that's a good place to start." Bruce pulled a penlight off of the tray. "This is going to be bright, but I'll be quick." Bruce shone the light into Clint's eyes one at a time. His pupils were dilated unevenly, but that was to be expected.

Bruce returned the light to the tray, and then raised his hands in front of him before initiating contact. "I'm going to check your skull. Let me know where it's tender."

Clint indicated the area behind his left temple and above his ear. "Have at it, Doc."

Bruce stepped slightly to Clint's left side, standing next to Clint's loosely hanging legs. Keeping Clint's head steady with his left hand, Bruce began to probe his skull with the fingertips of his right hand. It was easy to spot the knot forming beneath Clint's short cropped hair, but it wasn't a huge protuberance and the skin hadn't been broken.

Clint visibly winced when Bruce probed the area, but he didn't pull away. Bruce started to question him as he continued to examine Clint's skull.

"Have you treated this in any way yet? Taken anything for the pain?" Bruce examined the rest of the left side of Clint's skull. Though there was no bruising evident yet on his face, Bruce made sure to check the stability of the sinuses and eye socket on that side.

"Ice in the jet. No meds. Figured I'd come see you first." Clint closed his eyes as he talked.

"Have you been dizzy? Nauseous?" Bruce reached a little further and ran his hand around the back of Clint's head.

"Little nauseous in the jet. But that could be because of Nat's flying." He chuckled to himself, but then added, "Don't tell her I said that."

Bruce nodded although Clint couldn't see him. There was no way he'd repeat anything that might get him on Agent Romanov's bad side. He was already in so deep with her because of the Other Guy, there was no telling if that was a hole he'd ever climb out of.

Stabilizing Clint's head on the left, Bruce began to examine the skull on the right. "You have soft hands, Doc." Clint stated. Then he made a face at himself and tried to course correct. "Not soft like a girl...gentle. Not like those SHIELD doctors. I swear sometimes they make it all worse with their poking and prodding."

Bruce's right hand stilled at the base of Clint's skull as the archer spoke. He had a little too much experience at the hands of rough doctors not to take what Clint was saying personally.

"I'm not so thick-headed to know you can't clear me for duty…" Clint continued. "I might not want to admit when I have a concussion, but I know enough to know when I got one." Clint's head bowed and his words began to slur a little as he continued talking. "But if you can just send me home to sleep instead of to a white box with a crappy bed in SHIELD medical…"

As close as Clint was to drifting off, voices in the hallway got both of their attention. Bruce only recognized one, but Clint must have recognized the other. Bruce could feel tension rise in Clint's shoulders and neck. Bruce released his hold and stepped back, but still in front of Clint. He could see Clint trying to put on the Agent-of-SHIELD mask, but he had allowed himself to relax a little too much; combined with the concussion, it was a struggle for him to put the wall back up once it was down.

Bruce felt an unexpected wave of protectiveness surge through him, as he turned to face the newcomers.

Steve's voice carried through the door before the man himself arrived. "I don't understand what the problem is as long as Barton is following procedure…"

"The procedure is for Agent Barton to submit himself to SHIELD medical after any activity in the field." the second voice responded.

Steve knocked on the door frame much the way Clint had earlier. Then he poked his head in. "Barton, have you…" Then Steve spotted Bruce. "Dr. Banner." A satisfied smile briefly flashed across Steve's face. "He _is_ getting cleared by medical." Bruce declined to point out, yet again, that he was not a medical doctor. But that didn't prevent the agent shadowing Steve from pointing it out for him.

Though Steve hadn't entered the room, the agent waltzed in as though he owned the place. It made Bruce bristle, and Steve frowned at the man's presumption. The agent reminded Bruce of every self-important, officious, pencil-pusher he'd ever met. Although the dark grey suit he wore was pristine, the agent didn't look as though he had the right to wear it, and that made it so important to prove that he did.

"This is a medical suite," the agent noted while waving his arm around, "but it is not _SHIELD_ medical. And, Doctor Banner is not only not a _SHIELD_ doctor, he isn't a medical doctor at all." The agent's glance was dismissive. "After the events leading up to the attack on the SHIELD helicarrier and the subsequent Battle of New York, Agent Barton was allowed to return to the field with the understanding that his health would be monitored closely by SHIELD and we would be the personnel to determine whether or not he is a threat to public safety. Please come with me, Agent Barton."

Bruce could feel his anger beginning to rise, but almost laughed in the agent's face at that last bit. " _A threat to public safety?_ " Bruce was a walking, talking danger to the public, but Clint with a concussion just needed to take a nap.

Even with his back to Clint, Bruce could feel waves of resignation rolling off the archer, and he just couldn't let this stand. He moved slightly so he was standing directly between the SHIELD agent and Clint. He held his left hand up to indicate that Clint should stay where he was. Once again he had the unnerving sensation of someone behind him, but this time it was Steve, stepping in to back his play.

"Even with a brief examination, it is clear that Agent Barton is suffering from a mild concussion. If his health is truly your concern, you would not insist that he leave one medical facility to go to another medical facility just to confirm what you already know."

"It's not that your diagnosis isn't valid, Doctor Banner…"

"Isn't it? Isn't that just what you were saying?" Bruce loomed a little.

"You are not a medical doctor, Doctor Banner. Are you disputing that?" Now the agent had his back up.

"No, that has never been in dispute. But any agent in the field can follow a concussion protocol that you would accept as a valid diagnosis, wouldn't you? I mean, agents in the field should be able to administer first aid." Bruce persisted.

The agent pursed his lips. "In the field, another agent would certainly be able to diagnose and treat a concussion,"

A new voice chimed in. "I'm pretty sure he has a concussion. What do you think, Captain Rogers?"

"I agree with your assessment, Agent Romanov. Definitely a concussion." Bruce had no idea when or how Natasha had joined the party, and he didn't turn around to look.

"So," Bruce continued, "Agent Romanov and Captain Rogers, neither of whom have any training beyond first aid, can diagnose Agent Barton's condition, but I cannot."

"We," the imperious agent pointed in a wide circle, "are not in the field. We are standing in the middle of a medical facility."

"And I," Bruce pointed to himself, "have followed the concussion protocol to diagnose Agent Barton. Or, I was in the middle of it when you interrupted."

The SHIELD agent tried to get back on solid ground. "Agent Barton must submit himself to SHIELD medical after activity in the field…"

"Uh...not exactly." Tony sauntered into the crowded medical suite, Stark Pad in hand as he read aloud. "Agent Barton must submit to a medical examination if an injury has been sustained in the field. It's right here in his file." Tony pointed helpfully to the screen but pulled it away before the agent could make anything out. He continued talking as he walked over toward Bruce. " _A_ medical examination, not a medical examination by _SHIELD_. I mean, he could drop himself off at Kings County or Columbia University Medical Center...that would count."

"And what was that you said? About being a threat to public safety? Is that somewhere in the file?" Bruce was theoretically talking to Tony, but he challenged the agent with his eyes.

Tony turned and stood shoulder to shoulder with Bruce. He stared at the agent. "No. I didn't see that anywhere."

Agent Grey Suit swallowed hard. "Agent Barton…"

"Agent Barton needed medical attention. He sought out medical attention and we will give him medical attention." Steve stepped forward as he was speaking.

"But he needs to be monitored!" the agent argued.

"Doctor Banner will monitor Agent Barton's health." Steve never stopped moving forward, forcing the agent to either move or get run over by Captain America. The agent wisely chose to move. "We will keep SHIELD updated on Agent Barton's progress and any test results." By the time Steve finished speaking, the agent was in the hallway. Then Steve crossed his arms and took up a position of permanence in the doorway.

At that moment four Stark security personnel arrived. Tony called flippantly from inside the room. "Please show Agent Stick-Up-My-Ass out!" Then he muttered as he looked down at his Stark Pad, "How'd he even get in?"

Steve turned around from the doorway and sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. "Sorry. That was me. I didn't know what the protocol was and if Clint was hurt I wanted to make sure he got the medical help he needed…"

Tony waved Steve's concerns away.

"What...just happened?" Clint mumbled from behind them.

Bruce turned to see Clint listing far to the right leaning heavily on Natasha for support. "Looks like you're stuck with me, Barton."

Clint forced himself back up to a seated position and fretfully rubbed his face. "S'good."

Natasha met Bruce's eyes briefly; long enough to give him a slight nod. If Bruce was who Clint wanted to help him, she wasn't going to stand in the way. Bruce nodded back. Clint demonstrated an unprecedented level of trust in him; Bruce would do his damndest to make sure he didn't let him down.

Bruce shooed the others out so he could finish Clint's exam. He ordered x-rays and a CAT scan that Clint submitted to without complaint. By the time all was said and done, Clint was in a near zombie state. Tony inexplicably arrived again and escorted them down to an apartment that was ready for Clint to take up residence in. By the time the archer had collapsed into the king-sized bed, Natasha had shown up with a throw blanket and a paperback novel.

"I got this, Doc." she assured them. Then she briefly squeezed Bruce's forearm. "Thanks for looking out for him."

Bruce didn't have a flip response so he just smiled and nodded. Natasha seemed to understand. Together Tony and Bruce entered the elevator. Tony invited him to join him in his workshop, but Bruce begged off saying he need to get back to what he'd been working on. However, once Bruce was back in his lab, he couldn't get his focus to stay on his work in progress. Instead his mind kept drifting back to that wave of protectiveness he felt when Clint talked about being treated by SHIELD, how unexpectedly seure he felt with Steve standing at his back, and how the nod of approval from Natasha made something expand in his chest.

Bruce felt like something much more than taking care of Clint had happened today. He didn't want to let himself hope, but he was willing to wait and see what would develop in time.


	2. Cramp

Clint Barton, Agent of SHIELD, had the sharply honed ability to ignore discomfort in the field. As a top marksman and sniper he had to be able to open up his senses to take in the smallest detail of the world around him while filtering out distractions that would throw him off his game. He had to be able to get to, and perch in, lofty and uncomfortable bolt holes and remain there until the mission was done. There were already legends repeated by junior SHIELD agents in hushed tones about 72 hours spent on a cliff in a top-secret location; some of the retellings had Barton - battered, bloody, with broken ribs - sharing a nest with a friendly bird of prey, which was funny to hear and closer to the truth than he was allowed to admit. But what it came down to was this - in the field, there was nothing Clint Barton couldn't ignore.

But in his down time...that was another matter entirely.

"Owwwww…"

Clint whined loudly although there was no one around to address his distress. Sighing heavily, he limped his way out of his bedroom, down the corridor and toward the kitchen. Why did Stark have to install him in an apartment that was so freakin' big? It shouldn't take a man ten minutes to stumble his way into a cup of coffee. At this rate, he'd be better off if he rapelled down the side of the building and hit the Starbucks on the ground floor.

Clint paused in his shamble as he actually gave that notion some thought; then he dismissed it. Too much equipment involved. And he would have to get dressed.

"Owwwww…"

New forward motion caused a flare of pain, and then it settled back into the familiar sensation of a knife skewering his calf muscle any time he put weight on it. Fucking cramp.

Finally, the kitchen appeared ahead like a mirage out of the Sahara and the smell of coffee put a little more spring in Clint's step. That was a mistake.

"OWW."

Even to his own ears he could hear what a whiner-baby he was being but he indulged himself because he could. In Clint's mind there was a large and very clear divide between "on duty" and "off duty". When he was not in the field, in a home base, he could allow himself to be "off duty" but he always had to be alert and aware to some degree everywhere else.

When he was a kid, his house was a scary place; later, the circus wasn't much better. Clint learned quickly not to let his guard down, and those early lessons stuck with him. Even after he started working for SHIELD, there were only rare moments when he relaxed when he was within the confines of HQ or a helicarrier. SHIELD was more of a home base than "home"; a place to shower, catch a nap, get some training in...and without Phil…

The closest thing Clint had to "home" was a crappy apartment in lower Manhattan. It was small, it was smelly and the appliances were questionable, but it was a space he called his own. And, after particularly strenuous missions, he would go there to lick his wounds. When Natasha was around he'd make a little more of a show of it, moping and whining until she cursed at him in Russian and smacked him in the head. But invariably, after he woke from a "nap" that was more like "collapsing into unconsciousness in the vicinity of a couch", she would be there reading a paperback novel waiting for the pizza delivery to arrive.

He loved her fiercely then.

And now there was this place, this apartment - it practically had its own zip code - which, in a frighteningly short space of time felt more like home than any place Clint had ever laid his head to rest. He didn't spend too much time analyzing the feeling - it was still too new - but it was not one he took for granted.

Clint fixed himself a cup of coffee standing on his one good leg. It was such a silly thing. It was such a minor thing. But Clint just couldn't get past the fact that this leg cramp was completely distracting; worse than that, it was disabling. He considered his options.

On the one hand he could do his best to walk it off. Maybe some more stretching...maybe a light workout… some heat therapy; those might help. However, he'd been trying those things since the day before and while they hadn't made things worse they didn't make things any better.

Clint heaved a sigh and hoisted himself up onto the counter to take the weight off his leg. He toed the lower cabinet door open and rested his right foot on the triangle it created. This was not going to work. All of the usual tricks Clint tried to work the cramp out had failed. Under normal circumstances he would have asked Natasha to help him. She had steel in her hands, but she had a knack for finding knots in mutinous muscles. She would work out this cramp in no time, but she was on a mission with Steve.

Again, under normal circumstances, waiting to go out in the field for SHIELD Clint could heal at his own pace. But being on call as an Avenger changed everything; when anything could happen at any time, Clint needed to be in peak physical condition and he wasn't. If an emergency came up right now he would absolutely be the weakest link. He wouldn't even be able to sprint to the Quinjet.

"Jarvis?" Clint asked the ceiling (yet one more weird thing that had become comfortably familiar).

"Yes, Agent Barton?" was the immediate reply, as though the AI was just waiting for him to come to his senses and realize he needed to ask for help. Or maybe that was Clint just reading too much into it. Or maybe...Jarvis really _had_ been waiting for him to speak up... and that was just scary.

"Is Doctor Banner in the middle of anything that can't be interrupted?" Clint was careful about how he phrased the question. Not correctly asking the question had led to some...explosive visits. Not Hulk-type explosions, but actual things blowing up in the lab. That didn't bother Clint in the least; he appreciated a good explosion. But it made the physicist unhappy when his work was ruined, so Clint learned to make sure he had an all clear before he dropped in.

"Doctor Banner is currently reviewing his notes. There is no work in progress at the moment."

Clint took a long gulp of his coffee. The wheels were turning in his head. In spite of all the baggage Banner carried around, Clint had liked the guy since he met him. And ever since Bruce had faced off against the agent trying to bully Clint back to SHIELD medical, he was pretty high up on Clint's list of people he could count on to have his back. True, it was a short list, but Banner ranked really high.

By the time Clint finished his coffee, he'd made a decision in his head. Clint stopped short just before he launched himself off the counter, and instead eased his weight down to the floor. "Jarvis, would you please ask Doctor Banner to meet me in medical?" The last thing he wanted was to go down to the lab and have Stark drop by and offer commentary on the proceedings.

"Of course, Agent Barton."

With a groan Clint started limping toward the door. "He don't have to rush, it's gonna take me a while to get there."

It did take Clint a little while to get to the medical floor, and when he did, he found Bruce pacing. The scientist's expression became alarmed when he saw Clint hobbling in. Clint brought his fist to his forehead in a modified face-palm. "Not an emergency - I forgot to specify it was not an emergency."

Bruce crossed the distance between them, but when he got close enough he didn't seem to quite know what to do with himself. "What happened, Clint? Are you okay?" His hands were out as though he didn't know if he should be ready to catch Clint or hold him up.

Suddenly the whole situation seemed ridiculous to Clint. He started to laugh, which was a bad idea because it threw him off balance. He grasped Bruce's shoulder and suddenly Banner was rock steady. "Sorry, Doc...I should've been more specific with the message." Clint used Bruce as a crutch to make it the last few steps to the exam table. "It's a cramp. Just a fucking cramp."

"How long? Which leg?"

"What's today? Wednesday?" Clint asked as he eased back onto the table. "I woke up with one helluva charlie horse on Monday night. Tuesday morning?" Clint made an _I'm-estimating-here f_ ace at Bruce as he rolled up the sweat pants on his right leg. "It hung in all day yesterday. Still hurts like a bitch today."

"You don't think it's an injury?" Bruce placed his hands on either side of Clint's exposed calf, but didn't do more than that.

"Nah, wasn't anything out of the ordinary that would've cause it." Clint answered.

Bruce looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "But your 'ordinary' involves jumping off tall buildings."

Clint conceded the point with a hand wave. "It's been the opposite really. With Tasha away and no missions on deck, I've been taking it easy."

"What've you done for it?"

Clint shrugged. "The usual - heat packs, stretching. If Natasha was around I'd ask her to work it out for me, but she's not here so I'm asking you."

Bruce looked slightly startled at that. And there was something else on his face; a fleeting expression that Clint didn't quite catch.

"Too much, right?" Clint could feel his cheeks begin to burn red. Maybe it was lack of sleep, or maybe the unrelenting pain was getting to him, but he was surprised he read Banner so wrong. Rookie mistake. Clint tried to pull his leg away as he spoke. "Sorry, Doc. I shouldn't have asked."

Banner didn't release his leg. His grip was firm and warm. And the expression was back, but this time it stayed. It was pride.

"You _should_ ask, Clint. You should've asked sooner." Bruce shook his leg slightly in admonition. "But I'm glad you asked now. I'd be happy to help."

Bruce released Clint's calf and stepped to the side of the table to raise the back. Clint allowed himself to relax back into the slanted surface. "I'm going to get an ultrasound of that leg before I do anything else." Bruce warned.

Clint groaned in protest.

"Better safe than sorry," Bruce countered, "and it's not like you have to go anywhere. I've got a portable machine here and as soon as I confirm it's not a blood clot then I can get to work on loosening that leg up for you."

Bruce was as good as his word. In a relatively short amount of time he'd confirmed that Clint did not have a clot in his leg. Then he wrapped Clint's calf in a heat pack while he organized his things. Clint actually dozed a little; listening to Bruce putter around the medical suite in a non-emergency situation was somewhat comforting.

"Clint?" Bruce's hand rested on his shoulder in a half-squeeze, half-shake. "Just sit up a little, I'm going to lower the table. Then I want you to roll over on your stomach."

Clint was pretty sure his mumbled response was along the lines of "okay".

As he situated himself on his belly, Bruce move his pant leg up until it bunched above his knee. Bruce rested both of his hands on Clint's exposed calf. "I'm going to start slow. You've got to let me know if anything I do causes more pain."

Clint was slightly more coherent responding, "You got it, Doc". Clint pillowed his head on his arms and tried to relax into the table. Even though his eyes were closed he was pretty sure Bruce had dimmed the lights. There was also...yes, there was definitely a new smell in the room. Clint could hear Bruce rubbing his hands together so that was probably what that was all about.

Right before Bruce got started in earnest, Clint relaxed fully onto the table. It was counter-intuitive; obviously what Bruce was going to do would cause more pain, but just the idea that it could lead to some real relief was so appealing that it made Clint feel better before anything had happened. And then Bruce ran his thumbs up the back of Clint's calf and that all went out the window.

Bruce's hands froze. "Clint?"

"Don't worry 'bout it, Doc…" Clint blew out a shaky breath as he willed his body to chill the fuck out. "It's got to get worse before it gets better."

The heating pad came back into play then, and then Bruce did something to warm his hands as well. Clint let his mind dislocate slightly as Bruce alternated digging and stretching. Bruce kept up a soft commentary of how he was moving things or what he was going to do next. Then he hit the knot.

Both of them froze.

"Go." Clint commanded.

Bruce steadied Clint's leg with a firm grip just above his ankle. With his other hand he manipulated the muscles that formed the knot. Clint forced himself to remain still and not yank his leg out of Bruce's grasp as the searing pain screamed up his leg in a white flash directly into his brain. And just as suddenly as it began, the pain was gone, as the muscles gave up the fight and loosened all at once.

Clint shuddered as his whole body reacted to the release. Bruce threw a blanket across his shoulders and back before he went back to tending the abused calf. Now Bruce's ministrations were nothing but soothing and once again lulled Clint into a state of calm and ease.

After a few minutes, Bruce took his hands away for the last time. Once again Clint tuned in with his ears monitoring Bruce's movements around the room. By the time Bruce came back to the right side of the table to address him, Clint was alert and feeling better than he had in days.

"How're you feeling?" Bruce asked.

"Like I could run a marathon. You've got magic hands, Doc."

Bruce chuckled. "I wouldn't recommend a marathon any time soon."

"A sprint to the Quinjet was really all I was aiming for, and I definitely feel like I could do that at this point," Clint clarified.

Bruce nodded in understanding. "I wouldn't recommend that either, but barring any unforeseen emergencies, you should be fine." Clint pushed himself upright and swung his legs over the side of the table facing Bruce. "What I would recommend is lots of water and taking it easy for a bit."

Clint slid off of the table, still favoring his left leg just in case. But he found he was able to put his weight on his right leg with only a little residual pain. He bounced experimentally on the balls of his feet. "Water. Take it easy." Clint repeated. "I can do that."

Then he turned his head and looked slant-ways at Bruce. "Does coffee count?"


End file.
